


Letter from the Ocean

by Cris_C



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 14:13:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cris_C/pseuds/Cris_C
Summary: Fearing what love may bring.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Letter from the Ocean

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrackFrickFrolick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrackFrickFrolick/gifts).



I remember when I was young, mommy would cry. She’d cry for a very long time, her hands would pull the blanket over us both and she’d hug me so tight. Her breath would rattle within her lungs, within her ribs. It’d shingle tunes of painful longing, of yearning bliss.

We’d go on long walks, we’d hike through far streams. Follow paths that took us to hidden monuments of long dead beings. 

Her hand always held mine, tight and true. She’d take me along and show me right through. The step in her feet and the way it never wavered. She knew it by heart, this place, this sweet romantic fabel.

For when the night grew overhead, and we’d have to return home. She was frail and weak, the frame all shook. The red on her lips, the black ivy petals off her tears. 

She looked beautiful in the moonlight.

She looked deathly in it too.

Mommy was a woman who held strong and true. Her ideals unwavered, her feelings stubborn. She’d take me to the village, into the bakery, to the hairdresser or the seamstress and talk and talk for ages.

Her fingers would go through my hair, and I melted in her lap. The vibrations of her voice, the move of her fingers. I recall those times, even now, for ages and ages.

On the way home, without fail. She’d visit a man, the shoe maker. 

He was a big burly man, one whose face was stone, square jawed and mountainous in all but his eyes. Those that glittered of melted gold, pools of sunshine.

Mommy was happiest around him. Her smile wide, eyes glittering. Her frailness seemed to evaporate during those few minutes. Seemed to seep out of her like an uncapped jar of water. 

It made me happy. 

Yet as the days grew shorter, the nights longer. Mommys condition worsened.

I’d plow through snow to deliver handwritten letters to the shoe maker, black tipped ears pressed under a brown cap.

I'd watch mommy, skin pale, hair knotted and limp against her back. She’d write with fervor, she’d write with black petals splaying out from her legs, arms, and back. A moniker of half made fairy wings in vine and rose.

_ A wave so strong and stealing. Your absence suffocates me more than the bash of currents against rock. _

I’d hand yellow envelopes to hard calloused hands. The way your molten gaze would flip from each word to another. Short but crumbling into pebbles.

And I trudged through snow and dirt, tails length and scamper to deliver another letter to you, one as heartfelt.

_ Still the water of the oceans; realize rowing is all for not. _

And when your hands failed you, when the doctor said it was your time. You were all ivy colored flowers, deep and rich in color.

I watched the man, the shoe maker cast his golden gaze against your plant eaten skin, the eyes you once had sucked and consumed by his deep black roses for which he planted. 

He’d hold your hand, his child bundled in thickly knit blankets. 

I watched you fade. Watched you envelope our home in the sickness of untamed love and vine. 

I cried for days, endless and scalding as the shoe maker held me. Spoke apologies into my hair.

It was when I was much older that I realized what had happened.

I resented the man. Him and all his being. Why hadn’t he agonized the way my mother had, washed in pain the way she had, for he loved her and she did too. So how had it been my mommy, my home, the only one that’d been cocooned in a ball of thorn.

I frequented, I asked, I groveled at feet for answers. Yet all turned away, heart heavy on shoulders, mouth clamped shut in the brisk whisper of taboo. 

I left you and all I’ve known behind, to distant lands, to greater pastures.

There I settled down, near a small faction, near a small colony. You captured me with your words, stowed me in with your actions. I was swathed by your pleasantries and brought down to equal footing. 

There within the walls, sculpted to perfection I met you. 

Hands that we’re calloused and a crown of silver. Upon the walls you built your gaze cast down onto me, swirls of grey, milky and pearlescent.

We became close. You spoke in deep thought, your laugh sweet as chocolate. 

You stole me away when things got dire, warned me when father figures lost their way. Greet me in the dead of night when I followed a plan that was bound to fail. 

You met me on top of the world when it got dark, when a hole was let astray and even no blood was left on concrete floors. You placed a hand atop my head, threaded fingers between ears and under the brown cap my mommy had given me long ago. 

We curled under rose red bed sheets. Slept within each other's arms. Mine gripping the fabric of your shirt, yours nestled within the space between my coat and above my tail.

In the dawn of a new era you rose with the sun. In heeled boots and a green sun skirt that rose above your waist. You looked so happy, with a glass of orange juice in your hand and a thumb grazing my cheek. 

I knew then you were a shining star, blinking against all the darkness within this world. Shoving away the black ivy vines and petals that encased my heart. 

You showed me your new friends, the ones that became my own new ones. 

You sat there when I spoke to my grandfather, filled in the empty where his and my words failed to breach. 

And when you begged me to go with you, off to distant lands, just for a second. The fire that blossomed within your eyes was captivating. You were fire. You were the warm hand on my shoulder, the guiding light in a wet, dark cave. 

We traveled the lands, over grassy hills and under ant made paths, so giant and red.

We’d run into the woods, hot on each other's tracks and laugh as we ate venison for the third night. All of it was perfect, we were two halves of a greater whole.

You’d tell tales of before the war, sing songs so deep riddin and tuned. Id laugh as I strum the guitar, the one my late father figure had left behind.

For when the night came to its end, and we were bundled within thick furs of bears we’ve slaughtered, you'd cast your gaze, light soft and white upon my face and smile, all bashful but so wholly you.

Fingers delicate and feather light, graze my cheek. The inches between us, miles away.

The flicker of the wind. The creek of bugs. The rustle of furs. Gone and lesser in comparison to you.

The deep wash of the ocean fills my body in deep, deep dread. You pull away as I recall her face, the woman who loved and died for it.

And you held me, even as I cried, even as your face was painted in those horrid black petals, crying for molten, golden eyes. You look so pained that morning.

So distraught, and though I held your hand it felt like a casm was made, those inches no longer miles, but the great expanse of the sea. 

We went on as though nothing happened. As though you didn’t almost shatter the last traces of my sandy mounds. 

You sang and yet it sounded different. I plucked strings and it felt tuneless. We ran and laughed and it felt empty. And with every day that past since that night, the one that my frightened child mind plastered over your face and over the pearls that made your eyes, everything felt deaf, and my chest ached. 

I feared the cause of her death. No one spoke of it. 

It wasn’t something new. She hadn’t been the only one, and yet as if taboo, any who rose to ask were met with eyes watery and looks through narrowed eyes. 

I had run, run from my adoptive father, my sister. 

I ran again that night. In the way I didn’t greet you the next morning, waiting till past breakfast into the movement of packing and heading off to our next destination.

We sight see, at a distance. 

Let our fingers graze then blame it on the grass. 

Turn away so quickly, scared to look right at each other. 

And when we gained a semblance of normalcy.

When we stopped touching, stopped holding. 

It was okay.

The burning in my heart was worth seeing your face whole. The ragged breaths and half concealed splutters were worth seeing you up right. In your flowing dresses, in the boots you wear. With the hat that crowns your short brown hair. To hear your voice, throaty and smooth, to see you smile even if its short of full.

So when we ran, as we usually do, I turned to look over my shoulder. The halt of my shoes, the grit of the dirt, you lay there collapsed, upper body held up by your elbows as your hat gets lifted away. 

Your skin is white washed, like salt rubbing at stone. Your lips are parted and red stains them so. The drip of paint, onto the floor, the small orange petal. 

It paints you beautifully. 

No amount of time could ever reflect your being better than ever, mommy. 

No time but now. 

As if it were ending, as if the world was going quiet, and the ringing in my ears invaded like a hot flame against my skin. 

I ran faster than I could ever before. Scraped trousers on the dirt, lifted you up. You look through hazy eyes, a frown marred your face.

You always looked prettiest when you smiled. 

You hold my hand for what feels like forever. Clammy and cold, too close to a home. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

A whisper, that drags itself across my tongue. 

“It's alright.” It's so shaky, it rattles your whole body, your strong frame crumbling to dust under ugly oranges. 

Oranges I planted, for when and how, I know not of. 

So I begged. Begged into your shirt, begged into your open arms and weeped for whatever being may be out there to steal away what atrocious plants i diseased you with. The soothing hand you lay across my back, as my lungs burned and ached, face wet with tears and mouth gasping for breath. 

Strong fingers slowly, and gently lifted my face. You smiled sweetly, as you cast aside the tears in my eyes, wiped the red that was falling from my lips. 

“Oh, Fundy.” 

Relief. Total relief and I was left within the currents of confusion. 

“It takes when it isn't returned.” 

There and then. I folded for this being, his rays, his shine. I damned myself a fool, yet one that wouldn’t make another mistake again. 

My lips wobbled and he leaned in slowly, eyes reading all the tiny changes, seeking to find any form of discomfort.

Finally we meet over the casom. 

His lips are a soothing balm, washing warmth throughout my body, burning the restraints around my lungs to ash. It’s calm, his hold almost nonexistent, bathing my mind of the ocean and the words my mother wrote on paper. Created seas with ink and winds with fingers. 

My boat, my sail, no longer am I lost at sea for he, my winds, have found me. 

And so we part, his face full of color, no longer pale. His hands travel to my neck, fiddle with the hair. 

I couldn’t help myself, like an uncorked bottle of wine waiting to be served, he tugged the strands lightly and I moved forward. 

He pulled me closer, forcing me to steady us both on the ground, and I kissed him with fervor, leeching the life from those vermin vine that allowed themselves to grow within such a holy body. 

This was what my mother died for, and though I cursed the man for never loving her back, I now knew it was hopeless to ever love another like my mother had, and how my sisters mother had as well. 

That man lost his other half, I understand that now. 

So I will hold my own half, in my arms for as long as I breath, for as long as I Leave traces of my life behind, they will accompany me in letter, body, or in spirit. 

_ Wait for the winds to blow into sails _ .

I breathe him in, and he embraces me.

_ For eventually, they’ll take you to shore.  _

We hum each other joyous tunes, ones that aren’t empty. One’s that no longer pretend. 

_ To shore where you’ll find silence was fleeting. _


End file.
